House of Cards
by Flora Bora
Summary: They weren't living. They were just waiting to die.


The sound was unmistakable.

After all this time, all the blood spilled, all the souls they've lost – the sound, the smell - they still sent chills down her spine. Still made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. It was something she wasn't sure she would ever get used to.

She reached for her gun, but found the space between the waistband of her jeans and her lower back empty. Frantic fingers reached for the holster strapped to her ankle, but it, too, was barren.

The growling and heavy breathing got closer. She could feel their cold breaths brushing her back, her hair. Rotting fingers reaching, twitching; cloudy eyes empty, but determined.

She fought. Fought as hard as she could but the noise attracted more of them, until her tired body hit the ground, until there was no more sky above her but deformed faces. Until she felt the first bite.

One of them, one in particular, had the strongest hold. Cold fingers on her arms, her face. Her name. She fought him until her blood mixed with his blood. Until their faces began to disappear. One by one. Until cloudy eyes turned to blue eyes – blue, clear, not cloudy, not dead. Concerned.

It took her a moment, and her eyes focused on her wrists. Rick held them together. She breathed, slowly, and let her head fall forward until her chin touched her chest.

"It's okay," he repeated. "It was just a dream."

She could feel beads of sweat traveling down the bumpy trail of her spinal cord. Her hair was damp, her pulse quick and she could still see their faces, imprinted on the back of her eyelids.

"You okay?"

This wasn't right.

"Want some water?"

Fucked up. The world was fucked up. Everything, every living creature, every inch of the planet – fucked up.

"Andrea."

She thought back to the day of the explosion at the CDC. She thought of Jacqui, of Jenner, and the regret she felt now about not staying. She should've stood her ground. She should've stayed. It should have ended that day. One second. No pain. Just boom – and it would've been over.

But that didn't happen. She trusted Dale instead, and now the old man was gone. Most of them were gone.

Who was next?

The anger rose like bile. She twisted her wrists out of Rick's grip and ran. The moon was bright and full and it illuminated everything around her. Past the fence, she knew most likely the walkers were waiting. Blood rushed through her head. Just keep running. Run until you can't see anything behind you. Run until you can't feel the anger and the anguish and the fear. Just run. Run.

And suddenly she was falling. Tangle of arms and legs rolling through the damp grass. She came to a complete stop with her back against the ground and Rick's face hovering above her.

Like the dream.

He had her wrists pinned to the ground. She struggled against him, tried to get away, but he held her firmly.

"_Stop_."

She kicked him, tried to head-butt him, tried to squirm away...

"Andrea, _stop_."

Her eyes began to burn. Her anger increased. She wasn't going to do this. She wasn't going to break down like this. Not now. Not in front of him. She'd watched so many of them lose their minds – even Rick – and a rational part of her knew it was okay under the circumstances, but she promised herself she would stay in control. Stay focused.

For her parents. For Amy.

But the tears came anyway, and the frustration followed. She banged the back of her head against the ground, over and over to make them stop.

"Hey, hey," Rick said sternly, grabbing the sides of her face until she stopped. "It's okay."

She closed her eyes. It wasn't okay. It would never be okay. Every day there were more walkers. Every day one more person became infected. They were running out of places to hide. They were running out of food and potable water. Waking up every day was a gamble. A game of Russian Roulette.

They weren't living. Not really. They were all just waiting to die.

When was her turn?

When she opened her eyes, she finally looked at him. His expression was soft, his eyes bluer than usual, and his thumbs stroked her cheeks. He looked tired. Worn out. Worried. Worried and something else. Something else she couldn't figure out.

She also couldn't figure out how her fingers found themselves tracing the worry lines across his forehead. Couldn't figure out, either, how or why or at what moment their lips crashed together. All she knew was it was fast. It was desperate. Lips and tongues and teeth clashing. It was an overwhelming sense of need, a desperate attempt to feel. To feel _him_. Breathe him and taste him and hurt him. Transfer onto him the pain. All the sadness. It was nothing and everything. It was more.

She could sense it in him, too.

But they were dead. They were dying, and she knew she wouldn't be able to handle another debilitating loss.

So suddenly, her hands left his face and she pushed him back. He sat and watched – too stunned to react – as the back of her hand pressed against her nose and she ran back into the house. One second. And she was gone.

He sat.

His first thought was he could hear his heart beating. Blood rushing through his ears. His ears and another place. But he didn't linger on that thought for too long.

The silence was overwhelming. Thoughts came rapidly in waves but were too many to decipher them. Slowly he got on his feet, and stood for a second until his legs decided to move. On his way to the house he spotted his rifle and picked it up, looked around once more, and stepped into the dark house.

A dusty glass of tepid water couldn't wash away her taste.

It didn't take long for the headache to come. He knew they needed to save the aspirin for more dire times, and the pain at least allowed him for a small distraction. So he ignored the emergency kit and hoped sleep would take care of the pain.

While walking towards his bedroom his body stopped by her door without his consent. He leaned close and listened; thought he heard a sniffle, but nothing more. He brought his hand up to it, fingers brushed the wood softly, but then slowly withdrew them. Hesitantly, he made his way into his bedroom, where Carl lay curled under a pile of blankets. Rick climbed next to him. His eyes focused on the ceiling; his mind on too many and too confusing thoughts.

He closed his eyes, but sleep never came that night.

The End


End file.
